I've tasted of all your vaunted stock, Your clarets and ports of Spain, The liquid gold of your famous hock, And your matchless dry champagne.

Of your rich muscats and your sherries fine, I've drunk both well and deep, Then, measure me out, O merchant mine, Twenty gallons of sleep.

Twenty gallons of slumber soft Of the innocent, baby kind, When the angels flutter their wings aloft And the pillow with down is lined;

I have drawn the corks, and drained the lees Of every vintage pressed, If I've felt the sting of my honey bees I've taken it with the rest.

I have lived my life, and I'll not repine, As I sowed I was bound to reap; Then, measure me out, O merchant mine, Twenty gallons of sleep.

A Confession

You did not know, -- how could you, dear, -- How much you stood for? Life in you Retained its touch of Eden dew, And ever through the droughtiest year My soul could bring her flagon here And fill it to the brim with clear Deep draughts of purity: And time could never quench the flame Of youth that lit me through your eyes, And cozened winter from my skies Through all the years that went and came.

You did not know I used your name To conjure by, and still the same I found its potency.

You did not know that, as a phial May garner close through dust and gloom The essence of a rich perfume, Romance was garnered in your smile And touched my thoughts with beauty, while The poor world, wise with bitter guile, Outlived its chivalry.

You did not know -- our lives were laid So far apart -- that thus I drew The sunshine of my days from you, That by your joy my own was weighed That thus my debts your sweetness paid, And of my heart's deep silence made A lovely melody.

Martha M. Simpson.

To an Old Grammar

Oh, mighty conjuror, you raise The ghost of my lost youth -- The happy, golden-tinted days When earth her treasure-trove displays, And everything is truth.

Your compeers may be sage and dry, But in your page appears A very fairyland, where I Played 'neath a changeful Irish sky -- A sky of smiles and tears.

Dear native land! this little book Brings back the varied charm Of emerald hill and flashing brook, Deep mountain glen and woodland nook, And homely sheltered farm.

I see the hayrick where I sat In golden autumn days, And conned thy page, and wondered what Could be the use, excepting that It gained the master's praise.

I conjugate thy verbs again Beside the winter's fire, And, as the solemn clock strikes ten, I lay thee on the shelf, and then To dreams of thee retire.

Thy Saxon roots reveal to me A silent, empty school, And one poor prisoner who could see, As if to increase her misery, Her mates released from rule,

Rushing to catch the rounder ball, Or circling in the ring.

Those merry groups! I see them all, And even now I can recall The songs they used to sing.

Thy syntax conjures forth a morn Of spring, when blossoms rare Conspired the solemn earth to adorn, And spread themselves on bank and thorn, And perfumed all the air.

The dewdrops lent their aid and threw Their gems with lavish hand On every flower of brilliant hue, On every blade of gra.s.s that grew In that enchanted land.

The lark her warbling music lent, To give an added charm, And sleek-haired kine, in deep content, Forth from their milking slowly went Towards the homestead farm.

And here thy page on logic shows A troop of merry girls, A meadow smooth where clover grows, And lanes where scented hawthorn blows, And woodbine twines and curls.

And, turning o'er thy leaves, I find Of many a friend the trace; Forgotten scenes rush to my mind, And some whom memory left behind Now stare me in the face.

Ah, happy days! when hope was high, And faith was calm and deep!

When all was real and G.o.d was nigh, And heaven was "just beyond the sky", And angels watched my sleep.

Your dreams are gone, and here instead Fair science reigns alone, And, when I come to her for bread, She smiles and bows her stately head And offers me -- a stone.

William Gay.

Primroses

They shine upon my table there, A constellation mimic sweet, No stars in Heaven could shine more fair, Nor Earth has beauty more complete; And on my table there they shine, And speak to me of things Divine.

In Heaven at first they grew, and when G.o.d could no fairer make them, He Did plant them by the ways of men For all the pure in heart to see, That each might shine upon its stem And be a light from Him to them.

They speak of things above my verse, Of thoughts no earthly language knows, That loftiest Bard could ne'er rehea.r.s.e, Nor holiest prophet e'er disclose, Which G.o.d Himself no other way Than by a Primrose could convey.

To M.

(With some Verses)

If in the summer of thy bright regard For one brief season these poor Rhymes shall live I ask no more, nor think my fate too hard If other eyes but wintry looks should give; Nor will I grieve though what I here have writ O'erburdened Time should drop among the ways, And to the unremembering dust commit Beyond the praise and blame of other days: The song doth pa.s.s, but I who sing, remain, I pluck from Death's own heart a life more deep, And as the Spring, that dies not, in her train Doth scatter blossoms for the winds to reap, So I, immortal, as I fare along, Will strew my path with mortal flowers of song.

Vestigia Nulla Retrorsum

O steep and rugged Life, whose harsh ascent Slopes blindly upward through the bitter night!

They say that on thy summit, high in light, Sweet rest awaits the climber, travel-spent; But I, alas, with dusty garments rent, With fainting heart and failing limbs and sight, Can see no glimmer of the shining height, And vainly list, with body forward bent, To catch athwart the gloom one wandering note Of those glad anthems which (they say) are sung When one emerges from the mists below: But though, O Life, thy summit be remote And all thy stony path with darkness hung, Yet ever upward through the night I go.

Edward Dyson.